Chapter 4
From any other woman, that would have been flirting, but there was a cynicism to Fleur’s tone that irritated, reminding him of his own financial circumstances.
“Poor as a church mouse,” he said, wishing it wasn’t so.
Her lips curved in a tight smile. “You are safe with me, as is Laurence. I have no interest in finding a young husband.”
“No interest… What?” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “You mean to say you’re after Laurence’s father?” A laugh exploded from him.
“I mean to say no such thing,” she said. “But why not an older man? Someone settled, seeking companionship, less likely to gamble away everything or beat me.”
“While you use your wiles to wrap him around your finger. Ah, you French women.”
“I am not French. I am English. I despise all things French.”
That would certainly make his task more difficult. Marceau was not a naturally charming man unless he was striking a deal with a wine merchant. It would be up to Gareth to convince Fleur to make her home in France.
“But why? There are many good people in France.”
“Like the ones who killed Thaddeus?”
“That was war, Fleur. They killed us, we killed them. It’s the way of things for soldiers. There’s no point in holding on to resentments.”
She eyed him sideways, a look of puzzlement in her gaze, and walked on.
“Don’t you ever wish to visit there? You certainly have family there.”
“Do I? Why have they not sought me out?” Her voice crackled with rare emotion, but the wings of her bonnet hid her face.
They have left me to do that. He could see it must be done carefully. Even the hardiest of flowers could be blown over by a strong wind.
“Perhaps… perhaps you’re an heiress.”
“Bah.”
“What if I investigate? Look for your family? Will you promise to meet them?”
They’d reached the front steps of Bicton Grange. Fleur held out her hand. “You’ll find no one. They were killed in the terror and the fighting. And those who weren’t, those who supported the revolution and Bonaparte, they are dead to me. Now, please may I have the book?”
He handed it over and waited until the door opened and then closed on her.
Fleur was more resentful than most of the soldiers he knew. He turned and retraced his steps to Sherington Manor, remembering the taunts young Fleur had received from those riffraff children from Lower Reabridge. He could still feel the satisfying crack of the bigger fellow’s nose under his fist.
Fleur had been hurt deeply. He ought to have realized that business of not speaking had been young Fleur’s punishment against her small world. To lose her parents, to be placed with strangers, to come to a country where she was taunted about who she was… Marceau would not understand. He might well become the kind of husband who would beat her.
Walking back to Sherington Manor in the descending twilight, he passed groups of hired harvest workers heading to their rest. Some looked surlier than others, grownup versions of those bullies taunting his Petal so many years ago. It was good he’d escorted her home. At least he could offer her that sort of protection.
The rest though… The Veuve wanted this match with Marceau, and he’d promised to try to arrange it as a matter of honor.
But what of Fleur’s wishes? He ought to have expected the same stubborn Fleur, grown stronger with age, but this Fleur—she was stubborn, that was true, but she was also homeless, desperate, vulnerable…
And here to find a husband. If Gareth delayed an introduction to Marceau much longer, Fleur might find someone else.
There was talk of the ladies paying a call on a family he didn’t know tomorrow. Perhaps he’d look out and attach himself to their party.
* * *
“Miss Farnham is a lovely girl,”Dulcinea said. “A pity Mr. Farnham was out, but I’m happy to learn that the vicar is at home today.”
From her perch on the gig’s cargo box, Cora chattered away about her friend, Miss Farnham, and the vicar, who was one of her guardians, and the Reabridge shops, all the while nibbling biscuits from the basket on her lap.
Fleur scarcely listened, pretending to concentrate on handling the lines. It had rained the night before, and there were muddy patches to navigate.
Besides, she was feeling low. Not only had she been unable to meet Mr. Farnham, but she’d learned more about the orphaned child abandoned on the clueless vicar. The foolish man had sent the child’s nursemaid packing, expecting various local women to care for the terrified babe. At least now he’d found a woman to live in and care for him.
But she was French.
As they approached the town, her thoughts turned to Gareth and the conversation of the previous day. She’d almost expected him to dog her steps today again, but there’d been no sign of him as they passed Sherington Manor, nor when they drove through Reabridge earlier. She must stop looking for him everywhere.
There was a reason she always chose to speak as little as possible. She’d told Gareth too much. She’d given him too many ways to taunt her.
There was also the temptation he roused in her. She’d come a hair’s breadth from flirting with him. Teasing him had only led to him turning the tables and asking questions about her family in France.
Bah. France—a place where demons sporting cockades lurked behind every bush. No one in France had cared for her mother or father or bothered to look for Fleur. To Hades with them.
And the same went for Gareth Ardleigh.
The look on his face when she’d teased him about offering his own hand? She’d mustered a smile because pride had demanded it.
“The captain,” Cora called over her shoulder. “He’s coming up behind us. Captain Ardleigh,” she shouted. “Good day to you.”
“Ladies.” He doffed his hat. “Where are you off to today?”
“We’ve just called on the Farnham’s,” Cora said. “Mama wanted to come, but she thought better of it and sent me along to make her apologies and to make the introductions. And now Fleur has promised to stop in the village so I may buy a new ribbon.”
“Has she, Miss Cora? I declare, I shall make myself a nuisance and accompany you.”
Fleur winced, refusing to look his way. She’d bet a quid he was grinning.
“But first we’ll call on the vicar, Mr. Owen,” Dulcinea said. “He was a regular correspondent of my late cousin. We have biscuits for him, if Miss Cora hasn’t eaten all of them. If you wish, Fleur, you may set me down at the parsonage while you run off shopping.”
Would it be bad of Fleur to stay at the vicarage and send Cora off shopping with the captain? Having put her daughter in the care of Fleur, Mrs. Bicton-Morledge would probably frown on the notion.
“May I join you on your mission?” Gareth asked. “I’ve seen Thom Owen at the Book and Bell, but I’ve not had a chance to call on his father.”
“Oh, I hope Thom is there,” Cora cried. “In any case, I must visit as well. The ribbon can wait. My mother will want a report on this baby the vicar has taken in.”
As they reached the vicarage,Gareth quickly dismounted, and Cora bounced down with her basket.
“Come help me down,” Dulcinea said, beckoning Gareth.
Fleur sighed and busied herself securing the lines. Dulcinea and Cora were already headed up the walk when she turned to climb down and felt Gareth’s hands on her waist lifting her as if she were a child instead of a woman of two and twenty.
Her breath left her in a whoosh, heat surging from her middle, up into her cheeks, and down into…
She must get hold of herself. “You may release me now,” she said to his black neckcloth. Raising her eyes, she saw he was frowning.
“May I? I suppose I ought to. In case anyone comes down the lane and sees us. Are you quite alright? There for a moment you seemed a bit breathless.”
A corner of his mouth was turning up.
A fresh wave of heat rose in her cheeks, and she silently cursed.
“How was your quest with Mr. Farnham today?”
Mustering some composure she said, “He wasn’t at home.”
“What a shame.” The smile tugged at the other corner of his mouth. “I suppose you’ll return another day?”
Suspicion dawned. He wouldn’t have…
Of course, he would have. This was Gareth.
“Did you have anything to do with his absence, Captain Ardleigh?”
“In point of fact, I met him last night in the taproom of the inn and we made an engagement to go riding this morning. Capital fellow and quite hardy. Still in his forties. His father lived to be eighty. Not old enough for your plans, my dear.”
An angry pulse thrummed in her head. “I see. Well then.” She pushed at his hands, and he quickly released her, tucking her fingers over his arm.
“You look positively blooming today, Petal,” he said.
If she had her parasol in hand, she would beat him to within an inch of his life.
She mustered a breath and said, “Thank you.”
The front door of the vicarage stood open. She pulled her arm from his and hurried along behind Dulcinea and Cora to the drawing room. While a manservant announced them, the people gathered there rose. The soberly dressed man must be the vicar. A woman of middling years eyed them, and a petite, dark-haired younger woman of perhaps thirty set a toddler in skirts onto the floor before standing.
Fair-haired and blue-eyed, the child looked up with the face of an angel, and then quickly dropped to his knees on the Aubusson carpet and crawled over to a scattered set of blocks.
Mr. Owen greeted Cora and introductions were made.
The French nanny, Miss Du Plessac, watched the boy as he played, looking ready to jump up and protect him. Her gown, though of good quality, was of a style more out of date than those in Fleur’s wardrobe. Where on earth had the vicar found her?
“Mr. Owen,” Dulcinea said, “you and I have met before when you visited my cousin Mr. Quidenham. He was kind enough to invite me to live with him after my husband died.”
“Quidenham was a great correspondent of mine. We shared an interest in St. Paul’s travels in Greece. I was very sorry to hear of his passing. Will you be staying in Reabridge for long?”
“We shall see,” Dulcinea said. “For now, we’re abiding with Mrs. Bicton-Morledge. She’s just learned of the presence of young Sam. As you can imagine, we’re here on her behalf.”
“For what purpose?” Miss du Pessac’s back stiffened and her sharp little chin came up. Cora’s mouth dropped open, and the vicar opened his mouth to speak, but Fleur jumped in first.
“Her daughter, Phyllis Bicton-Morledge, followed the drum,” she said, “and the family hasn’t heard from her since she left three years ago. Sam may be Mrs. Bicton-Morledge’s grandson. Cora might be his aunt.”
The French woman’s terse nod was not a friendly one.
The vicar told them about Sam’s arrival in Reabridge with an English couple and repeated the story Mr. Sherington had shared with him.
“Mademoiselle,” Gareth said, turning the full force of his charm on the French nursemaid, “Mr. Owen. Is it possible for Cora to see the miniatures of the couple believed to be the child’s parents?”
The vicar retrieved a large locket from the mantel, opened it, and handed it to Cora.
“Oh.” Cora’s gaze traveled around the room ending at Fleur. “She looks more like you, Fleur, and Phyllis’s husband looks nothing like this.”
In that moment Sam, wide-eyed and curious appeared at Fleur’s knee and presented her a block. Her heart did a flip, and the wobbly smile on the little face drew a smile out of her. “Thank you, Sam,” she said.
“De rien,” Miss du Pessac said coaxingly, reaching for the boy and drawing him up onto her lap. “He speaks some English but will understand better if you speak French.”
You’re not teaching him English?She closed her mouth on the words, remembering the fear and uncertainty she saw behind the child’s smile. No need to stir trouble, at least not in the little boy’s presence.
Gareth jumped in, conversing easily with Miss du Pessac, so easily he was almost flirting, while Fleur battled her rising irritation.